Through a Dark Window, A Single Candle Burns
by Lawson227
Summary: As Christmas approaches, Juliet and Carlton work to mend badly frayed ties. Faint shades of Lassiet and a sequel of sorts to A TROPE FOR ALL SEASONS.
1. Chapter 1

**Through a Dark Window a Single Candle Burns**

**Disclaimer:** Standard stuff. Don't own _psych,_ just playing in the sandbox, enjoying writing _**fictional**_ stories about _**fictional**_ characters from a _**fictional **_show. Lassiet, post-S7, so any spoilers apply.

**AN:** A sequel of sorts to my earlier story, _A Trope For All Seasons_.

**_Dedication:  
__For Loafer_**_  
_

* * *

"No… no, Shawn, I understand." Juliet sighed into her phone. "No, I get it, I really do."

She leaned back in her chair and blinked hard as she stared up into the antique lights hanging amidst the more contemporary fluorescents. Even though the modern lights gave greater illumination to the detectives' bullpen, she honestly preferred the mellower glow provided by the old copper-shaded fixtures. As part of his efforts to revamp the SBPD, Trout had tried to have them removed, citing them as ineffective energy wasters, but on the same day they were scheduled to come down, a notice had come in declaring the building a State Historic Landmark, which meant any proposed changes were required to be submitted in writing and put before a board. Essentially, they'd have go through enough hoops and rings of fire as to make even a piranha back away.

A Trout never stood a chance.

As Shawn continued yammering excitedly over sleigh bells ringing in the background, she rose and moved down the hallway and slipped out a side door.

"Seriously, it's fine. I understand that it's for the kids. It's a good thing. Really."

She sank down onto a shaded stone bench. "It'll all be good and I'll just see you when I see you. Yeah. I know you love me more than chocolate Santas. Be careful, okay?"

But he hadn't heard that last, his voice drowned out by what sounded a chorus of carolers warbling a cheerful ska rendition of "Feliz Navidad."

"I'll see you when I see you sounds appropriately vague."

Juliet started, the phone dropping from her hand to clatter to the tiled walkway.

"God, Carlton!"

"Sorry." He rounded the bench and dropped to a knee to retrieve the phone. After placing it on the bench beside her, he rose and took a step back. "I wasn't exactly being quiet as I walked up. I assumed you knew I was there."

It was now her turn to say "Sorry," as she sighed.

"No problem." He leaned with his customary ease against a nearby pillar, and as he cast a quick fond glance over the arch soaring overhead, Juliet was struck with a sudden flashback to the first day he walked into what would soon become his condo. She recalled his appreciation for the fine oak floors and the historic details and if his disregard for the hanging body of the condo's former owner had been _just_ a little creepy and off-putting, she could at least justify it as due to this being a far less messy homicide than the vast majority they'd worked over the years.

Even the fact that he'd nearly become a victim of the whackaloon killer hadn't diminished his love for the elegant pre-WWII building.

Which left Juliet absolutely certain as to who had spearheaded the campaign to have the SBPD building declared a historic landmark and safe from Trout's scaly clutches.

Not that she'd ever mention it to him.

Not that he'd ever acknowledge it.

But if there was anything Carlton could be described as, it was a creature of habit. Until he'd been forced to vacate his desk in the bullpen, the items on its worn surface hadn't changed or even shifted, with the exception of a photograph of Marlowe and him on their wedding day. And God knows, the man had a well-documented appreciation for history.

Yeah—the building's survival _definitely_ had all the hallmarks of a Carlton Lassiter Plan.

"So."

"So—" She shifted on the bench to better face him, mentally cringing at the sight of him in a patrolman's blues. Even after nearly six months, it seemed almost unbearably wrong. Even if he did wear them well.

"I take it that was Spencer."

She nodded.

A single dark eyebrow rose. "And—?"

With the shorthand that even six months of separation hadn't managed to eradicate she answered his unspoken question. "The North Pole."

His other eyebrow joined its mate. "Come again?"

"North Pole, Alaska."

As Carlton's jaw dropped a slight grin tugged at her mouth because yeah, it was absurd as hell—more so when actually spoken aloud. "He and Gus volunteered to be elves at Santa's House throughout the holiday season."

Carlton shook his head, but the familiar expression of annoyance Juliet half-expected never materialized. Instead, he grinned—also familiar.

Also very much missed.

"I'd ask why except a) I really don't care and b) even if I did, any explanation would no doubt be so convoluted as to trigger a migraine. Much as I've missed working with you the past few months, I have _not_ missed the migraines."

He lifted his large Starbucks cup in toast and took a sip.

Once again a wave of memories, so powerful as to leave her lightheaded, washed over Juliet. How many times had they shared coffee while snarking or grumbling or comparing theories on a case? It wasn't anything she often did with Shawn because he wasn't much for coffee.

Or sharing theories come to think of it.

All of a sudden, she found the cardboard cup in her hand. At her questioning look, he shrugged. "You looked at it like you were kind of desperate."

Cautious, because she also recalled his predilection for four sugars and a _lot_ of cream, she took a sip. Surprised, she took a second, longer sip, shooting a curious look over the cup's plastic lid.

A faint hint of red tinged the edges of his ears but he remained otherwise unperturbed as he said, "Doctor recommended I cut back on either sugar or whisky."

"Easy choice, huh?" she teased.

"You have no idea," he replied with another easy smile although this one didn't quite reach his eyes.

Rather than ask what was wrong, because she had a sense something was—as well as also having a sense he wouldn't 'fess up unless it was at gunpoint and maybe not even then—she instead blurted, "It's supposed to be a charity thing."

"Beg pardon?"

After another sip, she passed the cup back to him and leaned back, propping her hands on the edge of the bench.

"The elf thing. It's part of a charity event. I'm not exactly clear on the specifics." She laughed quietly. "Mostly because _I_ was afraid of the migraine sure to ensue if I badgered him for actual details. I suspect it was probably Gus' idea anyhow."

"Probably bribed Spencer with promise of payment in candy and marshmallows."

Juliet laughed again. "Are you kidding? They were probably both enticed by the promise of payment in candy and marshmallows. The kicker for Shawn was likely a promise of toys."

"Of course," came the dry rejoinder. "Hard to say what might be the greater enticement." He lifted the cup for another drink.

As he put his mouth to the same place hers had been, Juliet couldn't help but shiver just a little. It had been a long time and so much had happened, but it didn't matter. Like it was yesterday, she could still feel his mouth on hers—could still taste coffee colored with a hint of whisky as his tongue had stroked hers.

Could still feel the shock and piercing regret over what she'd so stubbornly refused to acknowledge until reality had reared up and smacked her upside the head.

Externally, they'd both moved on after Carlton's stunning confession of his long held feelings for her and he, at least, had most assuredly closed the door on their relationship that had never been, but she, on the other hand…

It had taken many nights and a lot of soul-searching to realize it _had_ been a lack of acknowledgment on her part rather than an outright lack of knowledge. Some part of her had to have been aware Carlton harbored feelings beyond those of partnership and friendship for her, but if she didn't acknowledge them, then they couldn't possibly exist. Until the moment her arrogance and sheer pigheadedness had pushed him to reveal one of his most closely guarded secrets and it all became incredibly, intensely _real_.

And incredibly, intensely impossible.

He was with Marlowe and happy. She was with Shawn, and as she was soon to discover, everything on which their relationship was based was a lie. And instead of turning to her partner and best friend, she'd muddled along, first breaking up with Shawn because it was the right thing—the _only_ thing to do—before falling back into a relationship with him simply because it was easier.

Because being with Shawn was easier than coming up with answers to the many questions of why they'd broken up so soon after taking the oh-so-serious step of moving in together.

Because being with him was easier than facing _why_ she was so angry.

And because being with Shawn, no matter how foolish and perhaps ultimately futile a choice, was _definitely_ easier than looking at her partner, day after day, and berating herself for willful blindness and stupid arrogance.

The irony that as difficult as Shawn could be, a relationship with him was easier than almost any other alternative beyond moving to Iceland and assuming a new identity did not escape her.

"So back to 'I'll see you when I see you…'" He offered her the coffee cup once again. "Last I checked, Santa clocked out on Christmas and I can't imagine that the Dynamic Duo would want to remain somewhere the lows dip below zero on a regular basis for too long, no matter how much chocolate's involved."

Taking the cup, she took another long sip, savoring the still-hot brew. And absolutely refusing to dwell on what else she imagined she could feel.

"Well, apparently they're taking the Elf Show on the road to various locales that celebrate into January. Mexico may have been mentioned. Or maybe Miami." Something that started with an M. Frankly, she'd tuned him out after a while.

"I see." His tone remained steadfastly noncommittal even as his eyes cooled to the chilly blue that signified deep annoyance. "And what about Christmas?"

She shrugged and drained the remains of the coffee. "It'll be like every other Christmas I've celebrated since moving to Santa Barbara. I'll get a tree and decorate the house. If Mom and Lloyd weren't going to be on their Australian cruise, I'd invite them over for Christmas Eve dinner—as it stands, I guess I'll volunteer for a shift at the station. With any luck I'll even be able to swing Midnight Mass."

And oddly enough, she was okay with it. Like Carlton, she was something of a creature of habit and while she was rather good at compromise, there were some things she preferred doing a certain way. Christmas was one of those things. To be perfectly honest, she'd kind of been dreading the holiday, half-terrified of what Shawn might insist on in the spirit of the holiday. Oh, he'd said all the right things, about how exciting it was, starting their own traditions, combining the best of the Spencer and O'Hara Christmases Past, but she knew whatever promises and sweet words were pledged, that the end result would be as it always was, which was to say, he'd do whatever he wanted. She also knew how it would end—with him, cajoling her into going along, simply because it was easier than arguing or insisting they compromise.

Considering the boxed neon Santa and female elf in a short skirt and fishnets that she'd discovered in the garage, she already had an inkling as to what Shawn's idea of the spirit of the holiday might entail.

Really, it was better this way.

"I envy you."

Carlton's quiet voice snapped out of her own thoughts.

"Me?" She was genuinely shocked. "Why?"

"Even when you were on your own, you never hesitated to make Christmas something special. When I was alone, I never saw the point. All that time and effort—and sooner rather than later the tree would die, the garlands would turn brown, all the crap would have to be put away again for another year, and you'd be left with yet another fruitcake that could just as readily serve as a doorstop." His steady blue gaze held hers. "And here you are, on your own again—on a year you should have been celebrating your first Christmas as part of a couple—and instead of being angry or bitter, you're planning on making it…special."

"It _is_ special."

Again, his gaze searched her face until finally he nodded, as if coming to a decision. What he said next, however, was probably the last thing she would have expected to hear. At least from him.

"Would you mind if I joined you for Midnight Mass?"

Juliet sat stunned, her brain attempting to process what she'd just heard and what it might mean.

"Won't you be going with Marlowe?" she finally asked.

After a pause, he quietly said, "She's spending it with Adrian at the prison. She doesn't want him feeling abandoned."

_But what about you? You're her husband. It's your first Christmas as a married couple. Shouldn't she be concerned about _you_ feeling abandoned?_

But of course she didn't say any of that. It was Carlton. She didn't have to.

"There's more to it than that."

She stared at the empty cup in her hands. "I wasn't going to ask."

"I know." Another pause. "You've been really good about that, even when you maybe should have. Like when she pulled her Runaway Bride routine. You were nothing but supportive."

"You love her."

And she'd promised herself if nothing else, she would be his friend. The best friend she could possibly be. Because if there was anything she'd realized in the wake of Carlton's confession was that there was no way she could lose him either. As he'd said about her, she would rather have him as a friend than not have him in her life at all.

"Yeah." He smiled, but there was an unmistakable air of melancholy about it and shadows dulling his eyes to an opaque slate blue.

And once again, another memory swept over her—the expression on his face when she'd awkwardly and more than a little cruelly rebuffed his equally awkward request to join her and her family for their Christmas celebration. He'd recovered well, but the shadows and melancholy had lingered long after he'd turned and left.

Another chapter's worth of regrets in a book filled with them.

Impulsively, she asked, "Are you busy tonight?" somehow already knowing what the answer would already be.

A startled expression crossed his face, followed almost immediately by a slow, pleased smile. "As it so happens, I am not."

"My tree was delivered yesterday. I was planning on decorating tonight."

He studied her for a long, silent moment, a speculative light in his eyes.

"It would just be me."

"That's fine."

"Okay." He nodded. "Can I bring anything?"

She smiled and breathed just a little easier. "How about some eggnog?"

The edges of his mouth twitched. "Heavy on the nog?"

"Definitely."

"I'll be there by seven."

Another breath, easier than the last. "I'll be waiting."


	2. Chapter 2

As always, I am very, _very_ appreciative of those of you who have shown support via your reviews and PMs. It means the world.

**Chapter 2**

* * *

Carlton sat in his car and stared up at her house through the windshield. He couldn't stay there long—he knew the sweep of his headlights as he'd pulled into the driveway would have alerted her to his presence—but he needed a moment.

That he was going in wasn't in question. No way would he disappoint her, although he had to admit to a certain level of bemusement at the knowledge that a failure to show on his part would inspire disappointment rather than cheer or relief. However, the fact remained that having even agreed to join Juliet tonight was quite possibly a huge mistake. They were clearly both in fragile places relationship-wise and even as emotionally stunted as he could often be, he was nevertheless conscious of a certain measure of awareness that had lived between them ever since That Day.

That's how he thought of it in his mind: capitalized, symbolizing a line crossed, a moment forever defined—the day he'd confessed to Juliet O'Hara that once upon a time, he'd fallen in love with her.

Funny how the kiss they'd shared weeks later almost paled in comparison to That Day—at least for him. Maybe it was because he'd imagined it so many times, that even though the reality was a hundred times better, it nevertheless had a sense of familiarity—of inevitability—about it. While never, _ever_ in any of his wildest dreams, had he imagined telling Juliet how he'd once felt about her.

How a tiny part of him would always feel about her.

Which brought him to his car and her driveway and sitting there like an asshat as her shadow hovered briefly in the big living room window. An instant later, the front door opened, an inviting flood of golden light illuminating a path from his car to Juliet.

Who stood in the open doorway, the light from the house haloing her in a warm glow as she leaned against the door jamb, patiently waiting for him to get his ass up the walk and inside.

A sound, caught somewhere between a laugh and an incredulous snort, escaped as the enormity of the scene hit him.

Juliet waiting—for him.

Something else he'd never really ever envisioned. For so long, it had been the other way around. Not that this was in any way the same. It wasn't. That time had come and gone—hell, had never really existed. The Juliet who waited for him was not the Juliet of the past. Nor was he the same man.

They were different. Their relationship was different.

Come to think of it, it was almost as if they were starting over, as who they were now. The baggage of the past need not apply.

Breathing a little easier, he left his car and followed the path of light to her door.

"I was beginning to think I was going to have to bring the tree out to you," she said lightly as he reached the door.

"Liar," he retorted. "You would have come out, stolen the eggnog, and retreated back to the safety and warmth of your hearth, leaving me to shiver in my car, nogless."

She put a hand to her chest in mock-affront. "I'd never _dream_ of depriving you of your nog, Lassiter."

"And that's why you're a good woman, O'Hara."

"The best," she agreed, stepping back to allow him room to enter the small entry. "Especially since I made shepherd's pie for dinner. That is, provided you haven't eaten yet."

She glanced up, her brows drawn together in an anxious expression that for a fleeting moment reminded him of the girl he'd first met.

"Clocked out at six," he reassured her. "Only had time to shower, change, and pick up eggnog." He grinned and held up one of the two bags he carried. "And dessert."

"Fruitcake?" she teased, making a move to peer in the bag.

"Bite your tongue," he said snatching the bag back. "I should keep it a surprise just for that, but I'm not that cruel."

"Oh?" She led the way up the stairs and through the living room to the kitchen. "This sounds promising."

"It is." He set the bag on the island. "Chocolate Yule cake," he announced as he produced his bounty with a flourish.

Her brows rose even as a small smile played about the edges of her mouth. "A _French_ dessert? Carlton, I'm shocked."

"It's chocolate," he shot back. "Chocolate trumps all nationalities and crosses all borders."

"True." Her smile broadened as she took a brief peek inside the box. As she turned to peer in the oven she asked over her shoulder, "Food or tree first?"

Familiar with her kitchen from his brief stay there with Marlowe and he would _not_ dwell on what an asshat he'd been during that week, he reached into a cupboard for a tall crystal pitcher. Blending the fine Kentucky bourbon into the eggnog, he said, "I had a late lunch so I'm okay for a while, unless you're hungry."

"I'm good." Reaching past him, she dipped a finger into the pitcher for a taste. "Needs more bourbon."

"More?" He thought he'd been pretty damned liberal with the hooch. Nevertheless, he reached for the bottle and poured in another generous slug. "Increased tolerance or looking to get drunk, O'Hara?"

"After nearly eight years as your partner, maybe a little of both." She ducked away from his half-hearted swat with a laugh before turning to lean against the counter to watch him work. After brisk stir, he tilted the pitcher toward her for another taste.

"Better?"

She sucked her finger clean and grinned. "Better."

Reaching up to the top shelf for the crystal Old Fashioned glasses, he poured them both generous servings, and put the remainder in the fridge along with the unopened half-gallon of eggnog. Because dammit, it was Friday, it was the holiday season, and it appeared he and Juliet were at least taking the tentative first steps towards repairing the relationship that, despite both their best efforts—and maybe their not-so-best-efforts—he could now admit had been strained. If any occasion called for a little extra festivity, this was it.

He carried their glasses into the living room and promptly frowned.

"What?" She took a glass from him and took an appreciative sip. "What's that face?"

He grinned at the eggnog mustache decorating her upper lip before remembering he was annoyed. "O'Hara, where'd you have all this stuff stored?" he demanded while handing her a napkin and gesturing at her face.

Her voice muffled by the wreath-adorned napkin she answered, "The attic, of course. Why?"

"You should have waited for me to bring it down."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Carlton." She shoved the napkin in the front pocket of his jeans as she swept past him to the pile of plastic bins. "My scores matched yours at the last fitness evaluations."

"That was for cop work."

Her jaw dropped. "_So_?"

"This is different."

"Did you dip into the bourbon before you got here?" she demanded.

"I did _not_." He tried to cover his discomfiture by taking a deep drink of the spiked eggnog. At the very least, the extra bourbon would help explain the heat he could feel creeping up his face.

"Look—" Her voice gentled as she laid a hand on his arm. "If you're that concerned about my physical well-being, you can help me take everything back up to the attic when we break the decorations down."

"Won't Spencer be back by then?"

"Who knows?" She shrugged, the motion tight. Clearly, something was up. Truthfully, he'd known something had been up for quite some time, but hadn't felt the freedom to ask.

Now, however—everything felt different. He wasn't sure if it was him or it was her. More likely, it was both of them.

Again, he noted how different they both were from the people they'd been that first Christmas, so many years ago. Back then, she'd been fresh-faced and enthusiastic, festively attired in her plaid kilt and complementary sweater, while he'd been stiff and awkward and hadn't felt comfortable out of one of his staid, conservative suits. By contrast, tonight she was in dark leggings, a simple red sweater, and if she was no longer quite the fresh-faced girl he'd first met, the ridiculous reindeer-festooned socks gave her an enduring youthfulness and revealed her perpetual good humor. Besides, he had to admit the new maturity evident in her face and overall demeanor was even more appealing than the youthful prettiness and enthusiasm. For his part, he'd left his green-and-burgundy plaid flannel shirt untucked over well-worn jeans and while his socks were nothing more than a simple dark gray wool, he was at least comfortable enough in her presence to have kicked off his shoes and left them by the front door.

Then again, he thought wryly, he _should_ be comfortable in her presence, considering how much more of him she'd had occasion to see when he'd risen from her tub, adorned in nothing but bubbles and dammit, he would _not_ think of that lone, misbegotten week.

_New beginnings, Lassiter. All about new beginnings._

Draining his glass, he set it aside and considered the neatly labeled bins. "Lights or garland first?"

"Lights," she said, coming up beside him, "then garland, then ornaments."

He studied the other bins set off to the side in their own pile, labeled, Bannisters, Windows, Tabletop, & Mantel. "What about the other decorations?"

She glanced up from prying the lid off the bin labeled Tree Lights. "I'll work on those over the weekend. Something about having the tree done inspires me to do the rest."

"Makes sense." And bit his tongue to keep from offering to come over and help with the rest. Things were still too fragile between them—too… new and the lessons of the past painfully etched in his memory. This was her turf—he'd defer to her desires.

At least that wasn't new.

Fresh glasses of eggnog poured and carols streaming from the iPod docked in a stereo, they worked companionably, from searching for replacement bulbs for the inevitable burned out lights to his laughing at her grumbling at the tangled light strands and how she didn't know how in the hell it happened every damned year, given the care with which she wound them up for storage.

When he muttered "Squirrels," she burst out laughing, and he felt a flush of pride.

They good-naturedly argued over the proper drape and spacing of the garland before moving on to the boxes of ornaments. As if in deference, the music segued to softer orchestral versions of carols—a soothing backdrop to Juliet's stories of each ornament and how she'd come to acquire it. Finally, the tree nearly complete, she disappeared into the hallway, leaving him to fill their glasses with the last of the initial pitcher of eggnog.

"Here."

Curious, he set aside his glass and accepted the small gift bag from her.

"Juliet, what—?"

"It's not a present—not really. More a… thank you." She sipped from her glass, her eyes bright and color high. "Go on, open it."

Carlton pulled out the artfully crumpled tissue paper and reached into the bag for the small box contained within, smiling as he realized what it was.

"A Zapper Blaster!" he exclaimed, as he opened the box and removed the bright, multicolored glass ornament. "Where on earth did you find this?"

"Estate sale in the neighborhood. They had a ton of old Czech glass ornaments and when I saw this one, I remembered you saying how much you wanted a Zapper Blaster gun when you were a kid."

He froze, holding the ornament up by its obviously new blue satin ribbon, mesmerized by the way the delicate colored glass sparkled in the twinkling lights. "When the hell did I say that?"

She turned back to the bins, removing another stack of ornament boxes. Facing away from him, her voice was very soft, yet still clear as she said, "Five Christmases ago. Antique toy store case."

Carlton riffled through the vast stores of cases filed away in his brain and recalled the case in question. And had only the vaguest of recollections of mentioning his boyhood longing for a Zapper Blaster ray gun after coming across one that had been smashed almost beyond recognition during the fight that had taken the life of the toy dealer.

He would never have imagined Juliet had heard him—hell, that she'd even been paying attention—given that Spencer had appeared, clad for some inexplicable reason in lederhosen to "help" and proceeded to dominate the investigation in his usual, overbearing fashion.

Carlton _did_ remember, quite vividly, that he and Juliet had solved the case while Spencer had still been casting wild theories having to do with the toy UFOs actually being government mind probes.

What Carlton wouldn't have given for the shrink from the Bernie Bethel case to have been present for those particular burblings. The nimrod would no doubt still be locked up.

"I had thought to give it to you for your tree, but… you're not putting up a tree this year, are you?"

He glanced up to find Juliet ostensibly concentrating on hanging an ornament just so, but he could tell her attention was wholly focused on him. Her way of opening the door to conversation without insisting on shoving him through. Another change so many years of friendship had wrought. She knew when to push and when to simply leave things with a conversational gambit while he'd learned that there were people out there who honestly _did_ value his feelings and opinions. Or at least, that Juliet did.

"No," he finally said, stepping up beside her. "But should I be hanging it on this tree?"

Carefully she took the ornament from him and hung it from a sturdy branch. "Yeah. You should. I want you to."

She adjusted enough so it hung alongside the ornament she'd bought her first Christmas in Santa Barbara—a whimsical metal rendition of her lime green VW Bug, a miniature Christmas tree tied to the roof and a pair of reindeer antlers fastened to the hood.

Wordlessly, they moved to the sofa, turning lights off as they went until the room's only illumination came from the lights on the tree and the glow of the gas fireplace.

The relative darkness should have felt intimate and did—but more than anything else, it felt safe.

"Never trust a guy who claims to have gotten his JOP license online during jury duty."

Beside him, Juliet sighed, although somehow, there wasn't anything terribly surprised about it. "I had a feeling about that guy."

"Yeah, well, beggars can't be choosers and all that." And he honestly couldn't be certain if he meant using Herb Pollack as his officiant or asking Marlowe to marry him. Or maybe why Marlowe had agreed to marry him in the first place, although why she would have imagined herself a beggar—

""With Ursula off our case—and thank you for that, by the way—" he hastily added with a faint grin at her nod of acknowledgment, "we didn't feel as if there was any huge hurry to… fix things. We'd had the ceremony, we _felt_ married—we could get around to formalizing things any time, right?"

"Right," she echoed faintly. Her eyes reflected the multitudes of colors from the twinkling lights as she regarded him from where she sat, curled up at the end of the sofa. "But it didn't quite work out that way, did it?"

He shook his head and eased the sudden tightening of his throat by draining the last of his eggnog. Brain humming with a pleasant buzz, he found it easier to confess, "It gave us too much time. Or freedom." He lifted a shoulder. "Something. If we'd really been married, I think we would have plowed forward—full steam ahead, and made a genuine go of it. But knowing we weren't—"

"It gave you the time to think you hadn't had before you asked her to marry you."

"Yeah." He sighed and dropped his head to the back of the sofa, studying the shadows and lights playing along the high beamed ceiling. "And then there's Adrian. After a lifetime of being responsible for him, she just can't seem to let go. Or maybe it was just a convenient excuse to get away from me—especially after everything fell all to hell with Trout."

"Carlton, the son of a bitch demoted you. _You_—the Head damned Detective. After a lifetime of service and commendations too long for him to even read."

"You're presuming he _can_ read."

Her inelegant snort made him turn his head to meet her gaze with a lazy grin of his own.

"Be that as it may, you were allowed to be angry about what happened to you. And she should have supported you."

"She tried," he offered in Marlowe's defense. "I just made it damned near impossible."

"That which is most difficult often yields the sweetest results," she said softly. She stared down into her glass, hair sweeping forward to obscure her expression.

"Is that why you've stayed with Spencer?"

Oh, _hell_. Now why did he go and open his big mouth? It was one thing for him to confess what was going on with Marlowe—the essential dissolution of their relationship—but he'd long ago promised himself he'd stay out of Juliet's life, _especially_ where Spencer was concerned.

Admittedly, it had been difficult when they'd been broken up for that brief period—she'd been so obviously miserable and Spencer even more annoyingly clingy than usual—but he'd still been flush with love and the euphoria of newly wedded bliss, so he hadn't been all that motivated to probe too deeply. He'd asked if she was okay, she'd said yeah, sure, and he'd been selfishly content to leave it there, even if that sixth sense he possessed where she was concerned hadn't been completely satisfied.

Far as he was concerned, that sixth sense could shut it. It hadn't helped him worth a damn when he needed it most—had in fact, piped up at an impossibly bad time—and _now_ it wanted to express itself?

Luckily, she didn't seem all that bothered by his question. In fact, unless he was out of his mind, the expression revealed as she pushed her hair back from her face and behind her ear was unmistakably relieved.

"I said 'often,' not 'always.'" Her voice was wry, yet laced with a heavy sadness. The same sadness, he now realized, that had given an added layer of gravitas to the maturity he'd so admired earlier in the evening. Something very bad had happened. Something that might call for him to discharge his weapon. But only if Juliet gave him permission. Or didn't do it herself.

Whatever Spencer had done, however, Carlton understood that it was the beginning of the end of his relationship with Juliet. For reasons only known to herself, she had given him another chance, but clearly, it wasn't the same. Too much had happened for them to bounce back.

Which meant… he and Juliet. They were in remarkably similar places in their lives.

Oddly enough, he felt no sense of joy or even expectation. He was too happy at simply _being_ here with her. As her friend. He knew in the past he'd told himself he could be happy with nothing more than her friendship just as he knew he'd only offered it to his conscious mind as a panacea. Hoped that maybe if he told it to himself enough, he might eventually believe it.

Finally, after all that had happened, he did.

And because he did, he was able to say what a true friend would and mean it.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." And to his surprise, reached out and took his hand in hers, lacing their fingers together. "Maybe another night, but not tonight."

She slid close enough for their shoulders to touch, bringing their joined hands to rest on his thigh. He studied her finely-drawn features, etched in an ethereal glow by the Christmas lights and the flickering gas flames.

Staring into the fire she quietly said, "I'll tell you anything you want to know, Carlton—just not tonight. Tonight I'm tired and I just want it to be about the holidays—about enjoying them with my best friend."

"Okay." With a final look at her lovely profile, he turned to stare into the fire, oddly content with the mystery of it all. Of why she was finally ready to let Spencer go, why his relationship with Marlowe hadn't worked, why, after all this time, they were here, together, as friends and for the moment, nothing more and why that was okay.

Lifting their joined hands to his mouth, he brushed a gossamer light kiss across her knuckles, then lowered them back to his thigh.

"Merry Christmas, Juliet."

"Merry Christmas, Carlton."

**~FIN**

* * *

**AN:** If you're familiar with my work, you'll have noticed I borrowed the story conceit of having Herb Pollack not actually be licensed from my Karlton, SIX MONTHS. Frankly, it's a reasonably plausible plot twist and worked just as well for this story as for SIX MONTHS.


End file.
